GenderCultureandText

by Jessica Coslett

The flapper is perhaps the most iconic image to emerge from the ‘Roaring Twenties’ in the United States. The flapper was young and modern, often rebelling against the social restrictions of decades past by dressing in short skirts, dancing, smoking and partying (Fischer, 2009: 5). In film and fiction she was often criticised for superficiality and hedonism and yet nonetheless portrayed as an object of fascination and a symbol of modernity (Ross, 2009: 74).

Cecil B. DeMille’s comedic films of the late 1910s and early 1920s provide early examples of the New Woman film heroine as a fashionable, frivolous consumer (Higashi, 2002: 300). DeMille’s Why Change Your Wife (1920) is particularly notable in its portrayal of the sexuality of its two female leads, Beth and Sally. The early twentieth century saw a rapid change in gender roles with the rise of mixed-sex leisure pursuits and companionate marriage based on mutual fulfilment (Higashi, 2002: 229). However, while flapper films depicted women independent from the social restrictions of the recent past, they often did so through the depiction of marriage (Landay, 2002: 225). Sally’s and Beth’s character development throughout the film demonstrates the tenuous position of the flapper in discourse, as it is clear that the wifely Beth becomes modern in the ‘right’ way, while Sally is modern in the ‘wrong’ way.

Why Change Your Wife? follows a married couple, Robert and Beth, who are in a rut. A young and fashionable shopgirl called Sally seduces Robert, leading Beth and Robert to divorce. After the divorce, Robert marries Sally, who turns out not to be the ideal wife either. Meanwhile, Beth decides to start dressing more fashionably. Beth and Robert (with his new wife Sally) run into each other at a hotel and both realise they are still in love with the other. In the climax of the film, Robert slips on a banana peel and falls into a brief coma, and Beth and Sally brawl over where to put his unconscious body. Robert wakes up, chooses Beth, and the two remarry. 

The frivolous and seductive Sally in Why Change Your Wife? is a stereotypical flapper from the start, with the ‘complex balance of sexuality and innocence’ that marks the icon (Ross, 2009: 74). She first appears onscreen as a shopgirl modelling lingerie that Robert wishes to buy for Beth. Sally removes the underskirt to make the lingerie more revealing, puts on perfume and poses for him seductively. Later on, Sally is the instigator in their relationship, hinting at Robert to invite her to a show and convincing him to come inside for a drink, which eventually leads to a passionate kiss. At the same time, however, the film is critical of Beth’s prudishness, as shown through her overly modest clothing and her frequent scolding of Robert for his choice in music, his at-home bar and his allowing the dog onto the furniture. Robert decides to buy the lingerie for Beth because he wishes to cheer her up and, it is implied, because he wants her to be more sexually available (Why Change Your Wife?, 1920, 8:24).

Sexual fulfillment as an essential component of a companionate marriage was widely discussed in the years after the war, with a rise in popularity of marriage manuals with sexual advice for married couples, such as Marie Stopes’ Married Love, circulating in the United States and Europe (Robb, 2006: 100). While this may have afforded women more freedom to express their sexual desires within marriage, some historians have pointed out that the new discourse contributed to women being sexually objectified by their husbands, with what would have previously been described as ‘purity’ now being considered ‘frigidity’ (Robb, 2006: 100). Beth’s lack of overt sexual appeal is depicted as a problem in the film, and is contrasted with Sally’s own self presentation. When Beth reluctantly tries on the lingerie that Robert bought her she adds her own underskirt to make the dress less revealing. Later in the scene, still upset by the lingerie, she rejects Robert’s sexual advances which frustrates him (Why Change Your Wife?, 1920, 21:28).

It is clear that the responsibility of maintaining a companionate and sexually fulfilling marriage is largely on Beth, despite Robert’s infidelity being the direct cause of the divorce. Heartbroken, Beth goes dress shopping with her aunt and overhears two women discussing the divorce. These women express sympathy but attribute the divorce to Beth’s uptight manner and old-fashioned clothing (Why Change Your Wife?, 1920, 42:54).This prompts Beth to undergo the style transformation that eventually leads Robert to fall back in love with her. Robert, on the other hand, changes very little by the end of the film. His character’s transformation is primarily his realisation that Beth has transformed and that Sally is not the ideal wife.

In the climax of the film the two women fight over where to move Robert, who is lying comatose in Beth’s house. Beth’s concern in the fight is doing what’s best for Robert, while Sally’s motivation stems from spite for Beth and possessiveness of Robert, as she wishes to move Robert’s body despite the risk of injuring him further. During the fight Beth gains the upper hand by threatening to throw acid in Sally’s face so that ‘no man will ever look at you again’, indirectly connecting Sally’s selfishness with her vanity, despite Beth now participating in the same materialistic fashion culture (Why Change Your Wife?, 1920, 1.21.49). 

By the time Beth and Robert remarry at the end of the film, Beth has changed significantly. However, despite outward appearance, the extent to which Beth has modernised is questionable. In the final scene of Beth’s and Robert’s newfound marital bliss, Beth, now in a more revealing dress, dotes on Robert at the expense of her own wants. Why Change Your Wife? uses the visual trappings of modernity to portray a ‘modern woman’ who still conforms to traditional gender roles. It reinforces a traditional ideal by contrasting Sally with the more mature and sensible Beth. Beth’s character therefore seems less like a portrayal of the modern woman and more like a portrayal of a man’s ideal modern wife.

Bibliography

Fischer, Lucy, ‘Introduction’ in American Cinema of the 1920s: Themes and Variations’ ed. by Lucy Fischer, (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2009).

Higashi, Sumiko, ‘The New Woman and Consumer Culture: Cecil DeMille’s Sex Comedies’, in A Feminist Reader in Early Cinema, ed. by Jennifer M. Bean and Diane Negra (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002).

Landay, Lori, ‘The Flapper Film: Comedy, Dance, and Jazz Age Kinaesthetics’, in A Feminist Reader in Early Cinema, ed. by Jennifer M. Bean and Diane Negra (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002).

Robb, George, ‘Marriage and Reproduction’, in Palgrave Advances in the Modern History of Sexuality, ed. by Harry Cocks and Matt Houlbrook, (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006).

Ross, Sara, ‘Movies and the Perilous Future’, in American Cinema of the 1920s: Themes and Variations’ ed. by Lucy Fischer, (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2009).

Why Change Your Wife?, dir. by Cecil B. DeMille (Famous Players-Lasky, 1920), online film recording, YouTube, <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zIO9YG052w> [accessed 15 February 2021].

by Holly McDavid

“I just have to remind myself that the conversation is happening and that I’m a part of something that will be very, very revolutionary.” This quote from Lashana Lynch’s interview with Harper Bazaar, has been seen as confirmation that she will play the first female black lesbian 007 agent in the 25^th James Bond film, No Time To Die (dir. Cary Joji-Fukunage, 2021). Though the sexuality of her character, Nomi, has yet to be confirmed due to the film’s delayed release, it encourages us to look back at earlier examples of lesbian representation in the Bond franchise.

To select an example of lesbian representation in the Bond canon, Ian Fleming’s novel, Goldfinger (1959), and its film adaption, (dir. Guy Hamilton, 1964) is apt. The plot features Sean Connery as James Bond, Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore and Tania Mallet as Tilly Masterson. Pussy and Tilly are both lesbian characters. However how their storylines develop proves problematic for the type of representation it offers. The fate of these two characters in both novel and film ultimately panders to the ‘straight gaze’ and contributes to the subtle but firm stigmatisation of lesbians. Vicki Eaklor identifies ‘the straight gaze’ as the way in which the public is perceived and described as exclusively straight (Eaklor, 1994, 325). This theoretical ‘straight’ public influenced how Pussy and Tilly were created and presented. The straight gaze is rife, in both film and novel, and demonstrates how inclusion does not always equate to positive representation in popular culture.

In 1959, shortly after Goldfinger’s publication, Ian Fleming replied to a letter, stating that ‘Pussy only needed the right man to come along and perform the laying on of hands in order to cure her psycho-pathological malady’. Pussy Galore in both film and book is consistently defined in relation to the men around her. Her sexuality is both created and cured by men: she explains her homosexuality to Bond as the result of being raped by an uncle, and it is Bond, paradigm of masculinity, who can cure this malady with some ‘TLC’(Fleming, 1959, 371). Though the film retains Pussy’s homosexuality, it is done through vague hints in her lines to Bond such as: ‘You can turn off the charm – I’m immune’ and her later protests against Bond’s advances ‘Skipper I’m not interested’. It is palatable to straight audiences for Pussy to express these sentiments, at a time when homosexuality was still seen as a threat to societal norms, because in her 15 minutes of screen time, Bond succeeds in his seduction and therefore converts her on screen.

The plot of Goldfinger itself further demonises homosexuality by aligning ‘lesbian’ Pussy with Auric Goldfinger, the gold-obsessed villain determined to blow up Fort Knox, and aligns ‘straight’ Pussy with Bond, the hero who represents the ‘good’ side. Pussy’s survival is due to this crucial conversion; she is rewarded for her conformity to the expected gender norms. Through her new-found heterosexuality and shift in allegiance, Pussy is no longer viewed as a threat to society either as a lesbian or an accomplice of Goldfinger. Examining Fleming’s letter, we see that any possibility for a bisexual Pussy Galore is unrealistic – with Fleming’s preference to use heterosexuality versus homosexuality as a trope to represent good versus evil.

In contrast, Tilly is never cured of her ‘psycho-pathological malady’. Tilly seeks revenge for the death of her sister Jill – one of Bond’s conquests – who is killed by Goldfinger. In the novel she has a larger role, and is held captive with Bond and demonstrates her preference for Pussy’s company to that of Bond. Bond detects the snub and ‘came to the conclusion that Tilly Masterton was one of those girls whose hormones had got mixed up’ and goes on to insult sex equality and ‘pansies’(Fleming, 313).

Tilly’s death, and the difference between how it is portrayed in the novel versus the film, demonstrate Fleming’s punishment of lesbianism, and the film’s straightwashing of Tilly. In the novel, Tilly and Bond are running from Oddjob and Tilly breaks from Bond and says: ‘Stop! I want to stay close to Pussy. I’ll be safe with her’(Fleming, 337). Ultimately Tilly is unable to escape and is killed. Afterwards, Bond states: ‘“Poor little bitch. She didn’t think much of men.” He looked defensively at Leiter. “Felix, I could have got her away if she’d only followed me”’(Fleming, 341). Bond’s reminder to the reader of Tilly’s sexuality and the responsibility Bond places on himself, serve to show the reader that Tilly has subverted Bond’s ability to accomplish his expected masculine duty: to both protect and attract her. Tilly is punished for this subversion by death. It is implied that if she had been converted to heterosexuality like Pussy, and stayed with Bond – she would have survived.

Although in the film, she dies in the same manner (running from Oddjob), she is running on Bond’s orders to hide in the bushes. A small change, but one that represents the straightwashing of Tilly’s character. In cutting down her role, the film eliminates the attachment Tilly develops for Pussy (they never meet) and replaces it with attachment to Bond. Though they never kiss, there are more subtle enjoyments from Tilly in his company and she obeys his command. Although she still dies, her death is not because of her sexuality, because her true sexuality has been completely edited out of the film. This ensures Bond’s sexual prowess stays firmly intact, he has not been rejected, – could he have slept with Tilly if only she’d lived? – and to focus the film’s gaze on Pussy, the preferred lesbian, in that she isn’t one for long. 

Ultimately, lesbians are not new to the Bond franchise. But Tilly and Pussy’s characters suffer from the straight gaze – by the end of the film one is dead and the other converted. I doubt I am alone in hoping that No Time To Die delivers more for representation than its predecessors and sets the tone for the future relationship between Bond and homosexuality.

Bibliography

Burgess, Susan, ‘Gender and Sexuality Politics in the James Bond Film Series: Cultural Origins of Gay Inclusion in the U.S Military’, Polity, Vol. 47, No. 2, (2015), 225-248.

Eaklor, Vicki L., “Seeing” Lesbians in Film and History’, Historical Reflections, Vol. 20, No. 2, (1994), 321-333.

Fleming, Ian, Goldfinger, (London: Penguin, 2012).

Ladenson, Elisabeth, ‘Lovely Lesbians; or, Pussy Galore’, GLQ: A journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, Vol. 7, No. 3, (2001), 417-423.

Goldfinger. Dir. Guy Hamilton. Eon Productions. 1964. Film.

By Elise Sanbach

The newest incarnation of Harley Quinn is presented in the new movie ‘Birds of Prey: And The fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn.’ (2020) She is emancipated in that she is finally recognised on the big screen as her own character and free from her abusive relationship with the Joker. However, the emancipation of Harley Quinn has already been celebrated in the comics. She has her own successful best-selling series and a new relationship with Poison Ivy. Harley Quinn has moved from an objectified and abused character in the male gaze to an emancipated, queer fan favourite. This move can be credited to her fans who wrote their own interpretations of Harley Quinn and influenced comic book creators to move their version into the mainstream. However, the extent of this emancipation can be questioned. For example, has Harley fallen to further objectification in queerbaiting and lesbian fetishization in her relationship with Poison Ivy? Moreover, has she been fully liberated from the male gaze? Or is the need for male approval still evident in her comics? This blogpost discusses the extent of Harley Quinn’s emancipation in the comic book world from her origins with the Joker to her recent incarnations and relationship with Poison Ivy. Harley Quinn was introduced as a character in the 1992 animated Batman series as the Joker’s slightly unstable but entirely devoted sidekick. She premiered in the comics in Mad Love (1994) written by Paul Dini and Bruce Timm. The Joker did not treat Harley well, often physically or verballing abusing her and even on occasion attempting to kill her. Throughout Mad Love and the comics that followed, Harley still worshipped the Joker despite the abuse. Their relationship was complicated and problematic from the start. Moreover, their relationship relied on heteronormative norms. This means that the only reason we understand them to be a couple is due to the traditional male and female pairing that we are accustomed to seeing.  They are not developed romantically and rarely act in a romantic way toward one another as we would expect a couple to. Heteronormative norms also lead us to dismiss queer relationships that have romantic developments because they are not male and female.

The above panel from Mad Love highlights the abusive and problematic relationship the Joker and Harley shared. The Joker calls Harley ‘cupcake’ and himself ‘daddy’ as he gently holds her chin. In the next panel however he is holding her threateningly and shouting at her, calling her ‘stupid.’ Harley’s expression is alarmed but not surprised, she accepts his anger and does not fight back.

Furthermore, in the panel below Harley is asked how it felt to be, “so dependent on a man that you’d give up everything for him, gaining nothing in return?” To which Harley replies that it, “felt like a kiss.” She does this because she sees the rose he’s left her on the hospital nightstand. It is important to note that the Joker is the reason she’s in hospital, but she forgives his abuse due to this one romantic gesture of sending the rose. Despite their problematic relationship, the Joker and Harley Quinn were initially a popular couple among some fans. On the other hand, a lot of female fans wanted better for Harley Quinn and they began to support her separately from the Joker. They began to write ‘fanfiction’ about Harley to right the wrongs they believed the comics were guilty of. [1]

Furthermore, in the panel below Harley is asked how it felt to be, “so dependent on a man that you’d give up everything for him, gaining nothing in return?” To which Harley replies that it, “felt like a kiss.” She does this because she sees the rose he’s left her on the hospital nightstand. It is important to note that the Joker is the reason she’s in hospital, but she forgives his abuse due to this one romantic gesture of sending the rose. Despite their problematic relationship, the Joker and Harley Quinn were initially a popular couple among some fans. On the other hand, a lot of female fans wanted better for Harley Quinn and they began to support her separately from the Joker. They began to write ‘fanfiction’ about Harley to right the wrongs they believed the comics were guilty of. [1]

The relationship between comic books and fans has always been unique. By writing fanfiction, fans have the power to shift comic book narratives and influence their favourite characters. However, female fans weren’t always welcomed into the comic book world and therefore their influence has not always been significant. This was exceptionally true of the superhero genre as, “superheroes were, in essence about celebrating masculinity.”[2] Gradually superhero powerhouses such as DC comics started investing more in female characters, creators, and audiences. Now, in 2020, some of the most popular and best-selling superhero characters are female. This has certainly attracted more female fans but the motive for including female characters is debated. Mike Madrid suggests that comics introduce female partners for their male characters for two reasons: sex appeal for male readers and romantic storylines to entice female readers.[3]  Harley, in her origins, certainly encapsulates this description but Madrid’s statement is debatable. Yes, Harley enticed female readers but they also took issue with her portrayal as a sex symbol. Moreover, due to the unique relationship of fans and comics, fangirls were able to engage with the medium and ultimately move her from the male gaze into the female gaze.

Part of this move involved fans “shipping” (imagining/writing two characters together romantically) Harley with another DC character, Poison Ivy. They first meet in the comics in Batman: Harley Quinn, when Harley is found by Ivy under rubble from the Joker’s most recent attempt at killing her. Ivy sympathises with Harley and nurses her back to health.[4] Their relationship was clearly developed in a romantic and caring manner, although through a heteronormative lens they were thought of as just friends. Queer interpretations saw them as more than just friends and fangirls used blogs and fan fiction websites to develop this relationship. Comic creators were seemingly influenced by these interpretations and moved this fan-created relationship into the comics. Just as comic creator’s engaged with feminist theories of the ’70s and ’80s in developing characters like Wonder Woman, now it appears comics are engaging with queer theory and fan culture. Thus, fangirls have moved from adoring consumers to active producers of cultural meanings.[5]  A romantic relationship between Harley and Poison Ivy appeared in several spin-off comics until finally the pair had their first canon kiss in Harley Quinn #25 released in 2017.[6] An image from this comic is shown below.[7]

The significance of this comic and the specific panel are paramount. They represent superhero comic books move from a world dominated by men, masculinity, and heteronormativity to inclusion and celebration of female fans and queer perspectives. However, there are still some issues that arise from this source. For example, both Harley and Ivy are dressed in very tight-fitting costumes. Ivy’s hand is placed on Harley’s bum- a sign of affection with explicit sexual connotations never shown in heteronormative comic couples. Lastly, two male characters border this panel. They are looking at the pair adoringly and approvingly. Harley, although emancipated from the Joker, is still highly sexualised. Moreover, the inclusion of male characters bordering this panel suggests that male approval is still important. Of course, a female character can be both sexualized and emancipated. However, if we consider the motivations for including female characters some questions arise: Has this relationship been included because fangirls are now respected members of the audience? Or are these female characters still performing to appeal to the sexuality of men? It seems that Harley and Ivy could still exist for the male gaze, despite the hard work of fangirls to remove them from that.

On the other hand, this comic was indeed a breakthrough for fans who had been “shipping” this romance and who wanted more queer representations in the mainstream comics. The inclusion of the female and queer audiences is undoubtedly a positive step forward for the superhero comic book world. So perhaps my above analysis is a cynical reading of the comic. However, I argue it is right to be cautious. Comics have been famously under scrutiny of ‘queerbaiting’- when they hint at same-sex relationships but never show them- and engaging with queer theory only to maximize profits. The newest film of Harley Quinn mentioned at the start of this blogpost has been criticised of both. Although this is a step in the right direction more engagement and respect of queer perspectives are needed to fully emancipate Harley from heteronormativity and the male gaze.

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[1] Fanfiction is when fans take characters from a certain piece of work and write their own events with them. https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=fanfiction

[2] Hillary L. Chute and Gary Panter. Why Comics? From Underground to Everywhere. (First ed. New York, NY: Harper, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers, 2017) p.278.

[3] Mike Madrid, The Supergirls: Fashion, Feminism, Fantasy, and the History of Comic Book Heroines. (Ashland, Or. Exterminating Angel Press, 2009) p.57.

[4] Shannon Austin, “Batman’s Female Foes: The Gender War in Gotham City.” The Journal of Popular Culture 48, no. 2 (2015) p.285.

[5] Maguire, Girls, Autobiography, Media. p.107.

[6] Canon meaning in the official story line. https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Canon

[7] Picture accessed from https://www.autostraddle.com/drawn-to-comics-harley-quinn-and-poison-ivy-finally-have-their-first-in-canon-kiss-390603/ 12/02/2020.

By Sophie Lawson

When Alison Bechdel’s comic strip, ‘Dykes to Watch Out For’ (DTWOF) first appeared in 1983 it was a novel creation. ‘DTWOF’ follows the lives of a friendship group of lesbian women navigating love, friendship and work in an unnamed city in the U.S in the late 1980s. Published in LGBTQ newspapers, and online in its later years, until 2008, it is one of the longest running and one of the most prominent series featuring lesbians in U.S media and print culture.[1] Whilst providing one of the first representations in comic culture of explicit lesbian passion and inter-racial same-sex relationships, Bechdel’s strip also provides a key insight into contemporary political events through a queer and feminist perspective during a period of conservatism under President Reagan in the 1980s.[2]

The production of comic books, generally low-tech and more democratic than mainstream media, has long attracted a traditionally “marginalised” readership, or at least those outside the mainstream norm.[3] Comic books have also long depicted female same-sex attraction and identity, the earliest, and most famous, example being ’Wonder Woman’.[4] Launched in 1941 as part of propaganda for the war effort, she also infamously had traits many linked to lesbianism, coming from an island only inhabited by women and her signature expression being “Suffering Sappho!” – Sappho being a well-known, historic symbol of female same-sex attraction.[5] However, in the wake of second-wave feminism, the Stonewall Rebellion and a growing lesbian liberation movement, lesbian characters started to feature explicitly rather than implicitly in comic book culture.[6] Trina Robbins’ iconic strip ‘Sandy Comes Out’ was featured in the first issue of Wimmen’s Comix in 1972, followed by an array of titles like ‘Come Out Comix’ (1974), ‘Dyke Shorts’ (1978) and ‘Dykes to Watch Out For’(1983).[7] Adrienne Rich’s 1980 essay ‘Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence’ highlighted the importance of representation of lesbians in texts, namely in academic scholarship, that do not treat lesbian existence as a “marginal” or a less “natural” phenomenon.[8] Similarly, the representation of lesbians in material culture is equally significant in its role in constructing queer identities and histories.  ‘DTWOF’ was not only a product of the lesbian liberation movement of the 1980s but a part of it, grounded in desire for true representation of queer women. As Bechdel herself argues “if people could only see us…how could they help but love us?!”.[9] In Episode 18 of ‘DTWOF’, published in 1987, some of the group are “en route to the march on Washington” when one of the main characters, Mo, overhears a child ask their mother if she was “a boy or a girl?”.[10] Harriet responds to Mo with, “So? You shook up a little kid’s assumptions. It was good for her”, with Clarice adding “…you should try being the first black person one of these corn-fed kids has ever seen”.[11] Reflecting what queer theory and gender theory scholars such as Judith Butler have theorised, Bechdel acknowledges the potential for fluid performances of gender within queer spaces and the need for society to ‘make sense’ of gender in a male/female binary.[12] Moreover, this exemplifies the way in which Bechdel uses humour and the comic genre to challenge stereotypes within the queer community and wider society, such as white-washing of feminist and LGBTQ activism, whilst depicting the everyday challenges queer women have to face, such as being misgendered, challenged or discriminated against in public for their gender, sexuality and race.

Whilst having classic attributes of soap-opera like love-triangles and comedy, ‘DTWOF’ is rooted in the representation of lesbians at the forefront of social justice movements for equality, commenting on contemporary political events.[1] Comic book theorists like Darieck Scott and Ramzi Fawaz have highlighted the potential for comics, produced by illustrators like Bechdel, to function as queer and gender histories.[2] In Episode 11 of the first series of ‘DTWOF’, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ (1987), Bechdel addresses the corporatisation and conservatism of Pride, a debate which is still very relevant to date.[3] The group are at a Pride march when Mo challenges the increasingly “conservative” nature of the march, acknowledging the role of the AIDs crisis and Reaganism in detracting from the origins of Pride as an anniversary of the revolutionary Stonewall Riots in 1969, in response to police brutality against LGBTQ people.[4] With only one FDA drug on the market when Reagan left office in 1989, there was outrage in the LGBTQ community with many arguing that he was intentionally preventing drugs from being released.[5] The diversity of marchers in the strip, from AIDs activists to “Lesbian Investment Bankers” provides a unique queer woman’s insight into the divergent agendas, conflicts and struggles within the LGBTQ movement and Pride in this period.[6]

Bechdel’s ‘DTWOF’ highlights contemporary struggles surrounding racial, gender and LGBTQ equality through a contemporary queer woman’s perspective. It challenges stereotypes of lesbianism and womanhood, whilst humorously poking at the state of 1980s America, providing a queer women’s history through comic books.

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[1] M.A Abate, K.M Grice, and C.N. Stamp, ‘Introduction: Suffering Sappho!: Lesbian content and queer female characters in comics’, Journal of Lesbian Studies 22/4 (2018) 329-335, 330.

[2] H. Malinowitz, ‘Hot, Throbbing Dykes to Watch Out For’, The Women’s Review of Books 15/2 (1997), 6-7, 6.

[3] D. Scott and R. Fawaz, ‘Introduction: Queer about Comics’, American Literature 90/2 (2018), 197-218, 201.

[4] Abate, et. al, ‘Introduction’, 329.

[5] Ibid, 329-330.

[6] Ibid, 330.

[7] Ibid, 330, Malinowitz, ‘Hot, Throbbing Dykes’, 6.

[8] A. Rich, ‘Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence (1980)’, Journal of Women’s History 15/3 (2003), 11-48, 13-14.

[9] J. K Gardiner, ‘Queering Genre: Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home’, Contemporary Women’s Writing 5/3 (2001), 188-207, 196.

[10] A. Bechdel, DTWOF ‘On the Road’ (1987): http://dykestowatchoutfor.com/dtwof-archive-episode-18 [accessed 12/02/20]

[11] Ibid.

[12] J. Butler, Gender Trouble (New York, 1990), 6.

[13] Malinowitz, ‘Hot, Throbbing Dykes’, 6.

[14] Scott and Fawaz, ‘Introduction’, 199.

[15] N. Kumar, ‘The Double Edged Sword of Corporate, Commercialised Pride’, Them (June 2019), https://www.them.us/story/corporate-pride [accessed 12/02/20].

[16] Bechdel, DTWOF, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ (1987): http://dykestowatchoutfor.com/dtwof-archive-episode-11 [accessed 12/02/20].

[17] L. Richert, ‘Reagan, Regulation and the FDA’, Canadian Journal of History 44/3 (2009), 467-487, 469.

[18] Bechdel, ‘Pride and Prejudice’ (1987): http://dykestowatchoutfor.com/dtwof-archive-episode-11 [accessed 12/02/20].

By Milly Coogan

Content warning: Rape and Sexual Violence

Arthur Hacker’s painting of Syrinx – based on the Roman story by Ovid – depicts a woman who has fled from an attempted rape against her. The painting portrays Syrinx as a naked, visibly upset girl, who is attempting to cover her naked body with reeds. But who is she trying to cover herself from? In this blog, the relevance of Syrinx’s attack will be explored along with Laura Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze, in which women in art, are depicted for the heterosexual male’s pleasure. The museum label for the painting says “Syrinx was the daughter of a Greek river god. In order to escape rape by the god Pan she was turned into a reed. The moment of her transformation is shown here. Experiencing the girl’s terror can be uncomfortable: she is desperately trying to hide but her body is exposed for the viewer’s pleasure.”[1]

The nude painting is unique in Western art, as the naked body is hypersexualised in comparison to non-western paintings.[2] Syrinx hangs in a room dedicated to Victorian art. Victorian art is often characterised for its hyper-realisation, biblical or classical themes and passive, female nudes. Like Syrinx, the majority of the paintings hanging in the same room feature female nudes. The prevalence of female nudity in art is centre to this exploration of the male gaze in art because, as Laura Mulvey states, the pleasure of looking in the art world is divided between the active male and the passive female.[3] Hacker’s painting is interesting when exploring this topic, because the male gaze is set upon a visibly young woman who has experienced trauma. Moreover, the trauma is continuous as the painting captures Syrinx attempting to hide from the viewer’s gaze. The position of the woman in the painting shows explicit discomfort. The museum label highlights the paradox between Syrinx’s position; her arms are raised in attempt to cover herself, yet the same position exposes her to the viewer.  According to Nichols, this tension is crucial for feminist analysis of the visual representations of rape and sexual violence.[4] This is even more relevant when observing that in the original story, Syrinx is fully clothed.

Therefore, it must be questioned why Arthur Hacker painted this subject, in a way that exposed Syrinx at her most vulnerable. In the Victorian era, it was commonly agreed that respectable women did not have sexual drives, moreover, female sexuality fell into two categories: the pure and the fallen.[5] Nichols emphasises this by arguing that Hacker’s Syrinx depicted the “vision of the ‘ideal’ ‘victim.’”[6] In Victorian culture, Syrinx was attractive because she escaped. By fleeing from the attacker, Syrinx had maintained her ‘purity.’ Yet despite the ordeal that Syrinx had fled from, she is captured in an eternal state of the receiving end of voyeurism. The viewer gains pleasure by viewing Syrinx’s body. This highlights further Mulvey’s statement that the female is passive. John Berger explains this slightly by arguing that “The protagonist is never painted… it is for him that the figures have assumed their nudity.”[7]  However, by stating that the figures “assumed their nudity” places more agency on the model than the painting grants them; “assumed” suggests that the female model chooses to be in such a position, rather than the male artist demands it for his art, for the male gaze.

Mieke Bal claims that rape cannot be visualised because “rape makes the victim invisible.”[8] This is evident in Hacker’s work even though the attack is not evident in the painting itself and could only be identified by the museum label.  The attack on Syrinx is still relevant as it is the precursor for Syrinx’s vulnerable position, which is depicted for the viewer’s pleasure.  This is supported further by Robin Sheets who claimed that women are featured in art only to be silenced and objectified in order for a man to project his fantasies.[9] In this situation, it can be argued that Hacker’s depiction of Syrinx was not an exploration of Syrinx’s experience or feelings. Rather it is possible that Syrinx’s vulnerability was a fantasy of Hacker’s, or at least, her situation was worth sexualising for the male gaze.

Thus, it seems that the next question is how do galleries address this problem? In recent years, Manchester Art Gallery came under fire for temporarily removing a painting. John Waterhouse’s Hylas and the Nymphs was taken off the walls to stir debate about how art is displayed and interpreted in galleries. The backlash was quite immense; members of the public were invited to leave their opinion on post-it notes, on the space where the painting once hung. Many members of the public and considered the removal and act of censorship, whilst others praised the gallery for removing a painting that depicted visibly young, naked women. The act revealed the division in the art world surrounding nudity and the position of women in art, both on canvas and behind the paintbrush. Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx epitomises both the sexual views and gender roles of the Victorian era, as well as the issue of the male gaze in art. The depiction of a woman fleeing rape in a position of vulnerability for the viewer’s pleasure, highlights a fundamental problem in the art world: if the purpose of art is for pleasure, yet the male gaze removes the woman’s agency (especially a woman fleeing sexual violence), should it hang in a public gallery?

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[1] Kate Nichols, ‘Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx (1892): Paint, Classics and the Culture of Rape’, Feminist Theory (2016), 17:1, pp. 107-108. Kate Nichols, ‘Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx (1892): Paint, Classics and the Culture of Rape’, Feminist Theory (2016), 17:1, pp. 107-108.

[2] John Berger, Ways of Seeing, (London: Penguin, 1972) p. 53.

[3] Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ (1 October 1975), Screen, 16:3, pp. 6–18.

[4] Nichols, ‘Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx’, p. 108.

[5] Lynn Nead, ‘The Magdalen in Modern Times: The Mythology of the Fallen Woman in Pre-Raphaelite Painting’, Oxford Art Journal (1984), 7:1, pp. 26-37.

[6] Nichols, ‘Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx’, p. 17.

[7] Berger, Ways of Seeing, p. 54.

[8] Mieke Bal, Reading ‘Rembrandt’: Beyond the World-Image Opposition, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991) in Nichols, ‘Arthur Hacker’s Syrinx’, p. 109.

[9] Robin Sheets, ‘Pornography and Art: The Case of Jenny’, Critical Enquiry (1988), 14:2, pp. 315-334 in Merve Sari, ‘Remembering Jenny: Representation of the Fallen Woman Through Male Gaze in Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s ‘Jenny’’, Beşeri Bilimler Sayısı (2018), 16:3, p. 365.

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By Claire Hammond @thehistoryreview

The late-Georgian era was the age of satire, caricature and ridicule.[1] The study of visual satire is a relatively new field and allows historians to approach different themes with fresh eyes. In approaching ‘gendered objects / gendered subjects’, the exploration of visual satire opens up discussions around the depiction and representation of women in print, women’s political agency, and the ‘satirical gaze’.[2] However as with any historical source, analysing visual satire has its challenges. Demonstrating the difficulty of ‘reading’ graphic satire, James Baker outlined potential readings of Isaac Cruickshank’s print of Thomas Paine and concluded (with a thinly veiled glee); ‘To this day I have no idea which reading I prefer, though I suspect Cruikshank and his publisher meant for all three readings to be possible simultaneously.’^[3]

Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire (b. 1757 – d. 1806) was a woman of famed beauty, kindness and personal charm. Sadly, her life was blighted by addiction and what modern historians would term as mental health problems.[4] A devoted Whig, she entered the vicious world of personal political canvassing in the 1784 Westminster election in support of one Charles Fox. Freed from editorial restrictions in 1774, artists and authors were now more freely able to ridicule public figures, and Georgiana quickly became a prime target.[5] Through looking at one satirical print in particular, Thomas Rowlandson’s ‘The MISCARRIAGE or his GRACE stopping the SUPPLIES’ (Figure 1) we can see how women were satirised by artists to make political and social statements, often depicting them in the virgin / whore binary. When Georgiana ventured from her carriage into the streets of Westminster during the election campaign, she sparked an explosion in prints that sought to make comment on her. The most infamous are those that mock and ridicule, using her image to satirise women and speak to wider concerns about women in ‘men’s affairs’. [6] Her body became the metaphorical battleground of political satire.

‘Ladies who interest themselves so much in the case of elections, are perhaps too ignorant to know that they meddle with what does not concern them…’

The Morning Post, 8 April 1784.[7]

In Rowlandson’s print, Georgiana is shocked and open-mouthed in the arms of a caricatured Charles Fox. Her dress exposes her ankles and she is ‘miscarrying’ money as the bubble next to it reads ‘For Tardy Voters’. The other figure in the print is the 5^th Duke of Devonshire, Georgiana’s husband, who is pulling up a pair of breeches. His speech bubble reads, ‘I’d not be drained of my last farthing, therefore my Lady, henceforth I will wear the breeches’. The print alludes to Georgiana’s known gambling problems, suggesting she is frivolous and ruining the Cavendish estate. The Duke, cuckholded, tries to regain dominance and in ‘wear the trousers’. In the background are two framed pictures. The left-hand image shows the Duke whipping a horse back into its stable, with the Cavendish Motto ‘CAVENDO TUTU’ (Safe Through Caution’) underneath. The right-hand image shows Georgiana and Charles fox carrying a monstrous bunch of grapes between them, the motto now inverted. There is a lot of symbolic and contemporary imagery to untangle, but the visual connection between Rowlandson’s caption ‘The MISCARRIAGE’ and the depiction of money flooding out from beneath her dress is a disturbing yet inescapable connection. She is being shown as literally miscarrying money.

Georgiana’s political convictions were troubling to her critics. If her support of Fox was due to a personal relationship, it was inappropriate and could indicate that she was having a sexual affair with Fox. Indeed, many of the contemporary prints allude to such an affair, or at least depict her in some form of intimacy with a man (Figure 2).[8] Also in this print we see themes of gender inversion appearing again, the last part of the caption reading ‘The Women Wear Breeches & the Men Petticoats’. This speaks to the deep concerns Georgians had over gender roles and the dangers of gender inversion. In contrast, if it was not a personal connection, it meant that Georgiana was intellectually involved in state politics, a distinctly masculine occupation. It was a Catch-22 situation. In either case, the Duchess was transgressing an appropriate feminine role and becoming ‘a woman of the people’.[9] Fox’s moniker, ‘man of the people’, could not translate onto Georgiana. She could not be a ‘woman of the people’ without being also a prostitute, who pimped herself out for votes.[10]

‘There seemed to be no middle ground between

the PITTIE WHORE and the FOXITE VIRGIN’[11]

Of particular emphasis in Rowlandson’s print are the allusions to miscarriage, and by extension, pregnancy, birth and motherhood in general. The late-Georgian period was a time of increasing anxiety of the fecundity of the population. As a known gambling addict, Georgiana was the locus for fears around ‘the impotent nobility’; the effects of an urban and luxurious lifestyle on women’s ability to bear and raise children.[12] She was a direct contrast to the often bawdily celebrated stereotypes of the milkmaid and the ploughmen, who were satirised as ‘wholesome, natural and sexually vigorous’.[13] Not only then, is Georgiana portrayed as a political prostitute, but Rowlandson’s print makes to portray her as a failed wife and mother. He employs the physically female trauma of miscarriage, of which Georgiana sadly suffered many, to make a satirical statement on society and politics. There are many ‘readings’ of Rowlandson’s print, and many other depictions of Georgiana to be studied more in-depth.

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^[1] Bullard, Paddy, ed. The Oxford Handbook of 18^th Century British Satire, p. 1.

[2] McCreery, C. The Satirical Gaze: Prints of Women in Late-Eighteenth Century Women (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004), p. 2.

[3] James Baker, The Business of Satirical Prints in Late-Georgian England, p. v.

[4] For a biography of Georgiana’s life, see; Foreman, Amanda. Georgiana: Duchess of Devonshire (London: Harper Collins, 2008)

[5] Foreman, p. 144.

[6] Foreman, p. 44.

[7] Gleeson, Janet. An Aristocratic Affair. (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p. 105.

[8] McCreery, p. 190.

[9] Rauser, Amelia, The Butcher-Kissing Duchess, of Devonshire: Between Caricature and Allegory in 1784’ Eighteenth-Century Studies 36:1, Contested Exhibitions (2002), p 30.

[10] McCreery, p. 190.

[11] Rauser, p. 39.

[12]Ganev, Robin, ‘Milkmaids, Ploughmen and Sex in 18^th Century Britain’ Journal of the History of Sexuality, Volume 16, No 1 (2007), pp. 40 – 67.

[13] Ganev, Milkmaid and ploughmen, p. 42.

By Prue Watson

To modern eyes, this image may not seem controversial, but when Playboy magazine published thisimage of Liv Lindeland showing a wisp of pubic hair in their Miss January centrefold in 1971, it was viewed as radical because pubic hair had rarely been shown before.[1]

Hugh Hefner, owner of Playboy, published the image in retaliation to a picture that Bob Guccione presented of Ada Grootenboer in Penthouse magazine who too was exposing pubic hair. Penthouse was Playboy’s main competition. Guccione had launched Penthouse to take on Hugh Hefner’s Playboy because it was a lucrative market both in wealth and masculine status. ‘We’re going rabbit-hunting,’ claimed Bob Guccione when Penthouse magazine launched in the UK in 1965.^[2]

Over the next four years, the battle over which tycoon was most powerful was fought over who would show pubic hair, and how much. It was dubbed the ‘pubic wars’. But in a period of sexual liberation and a fight for women’s liberation more specifically, was the ‘war’ for women or men?

At this time, the women’s liberation movement was concerned with how to represent sex as well as how to have it; they claimed to be ‘sex-positivists’.^[3] Pornography, however, was divisive. Some women claimed pornography, and PR stunts like the pubic wars, anti-feminist, while others believed that feminism was about freedom and choice and, as a result, women were free to look at and be in pornography if they chose to.^[4] Women were trying to claim their bodies back from patriarchal structures that had constrained them by doing things like growing their bodily hair, and some feminists believed that women should be free to expose pubic hair, even in pornography magazines.[5]

In The Female Eunuch, first published in 1970, Germaine Greer wrote about her disapproval of how women were encouraged to dislike their pubic hair so as to seem ‘sexless or infantile’.^[6] And in the Joy of Sex, women were actively encouraged to stop removing pubic hair so that they could enjoy the natural body and its sexuality.^[7] In images such as this one, Hefner was, he argued, shattering the sexual repression that had they had experienced before and was helping to free women from their bodies and domesticity.^[8] So what was wrong with Lindeland being showcased like this?

Feminists claimed that the women in pornographic magazines more generally were being used as ornamental objects and were a commodity to sell both sexual liberation and their magazines.^[9] Guccione himself said that he was ‘objectifying women in every body part save for her tonsils.’^[10] For some factions of the feminist movement, such as the Women Against Pornography group which included activists such as Susan Brownmiller, Gloria Steinem and Robin Morgan, this was a capitalist venture not actual liberation at all.[11] R.W. Connell’s theory of hegemonic masculinity – the cultural domination of one form of masculinity over other masculinities and women – may be useful here.[12] For the magazine owners’, was a pubic war a way of them maintaining a hegemonic position among men which in turn helped to perpetuate the subordination of women?

Guccione could see that Hefner was creating a new kind of masculinity that served him well: the suave gent who appreciated the finer things in life and someone who could also enjoy the thrills that sexual liberation brought. Both Hefner and Guccione enjoyed parties and a status among the wealthy and famous that helped cement this.^[13]

Moreover, Penthouse’s sales grew by 10 times to 2.2 million from when it launched to September 1972 and it is argued that this growth was down to the pubic wars.^[14] While this was still significantly lower than Playboy’s circulation, Hefner did not hold back; he could see how lucrative it was. Both magazines were showing more pubic hair and poses became raunchier. However, the war came to a close in 1975 when Playboy launched a cover showing a woman masturbating which caused outrage among its advertisers. With a $40 million ad revenue, Hefner decided to pull the plug and revert back to its ‘refined’ images and covers.^[15] The pubic wars had however helped raise the profile of both men and their magazines, which further allowed them to build on and fulfil their hegemonic status and bank accounts. This had little to do with equality between men and women, and little to do with women’s agency.

Hefner was honest about the fact that he was not trying to achieve equality;^[16] he openly told readers in his first issue that he enjoyed being with men more in a social and mental capacity. He wanted his girls to be faithful, affectionate, silent and clean.^[17] It was an unapologetic double standard.

Yet, Guccione and Hefner claimed the pubic wars was a feminist act. They used women’s pubic hair to argue that they were helping women reclaim their body by re-feminising women’s hair. The hairy feminist was not supposed to be feminine, attractive or fun.^[18] In this image of Lindeland, we see an ideal woman for 1971: long, well-kept hair, a thin body, clear skin, traditionally beautiful and bar her pubis, she’s hairless. For Hefner and Guccione, the pubic wars could help to belittle the women in the anti-pornography feminist movement who were trying to reclaim the body and continue to subordinate women in their magazines by objectifying them.

But what about Lindeland – as well as the many other women pictured during the ‘war’ – did she have choice and freedom or was she being oppressed? I’m not sure. I have found little evidence from her perspective about her involvement. While it is not without reason that she went into this with agency, it is telling that there is little about the pubic wars from her point of view, particularly since Hefner claimed this war was a feminist act.

What one may deduce is that both Hefner and Guccione felt as though they were in charge. It is striking that while women were trying to reclaim the body, Lindeland, alongside women in Playboy and Penthouse, were actually given little agency. Guccione said of pubic hair ‘Some girls have a … nice, well-shaped, well-defined pubis. Some girls have straggly hair and long hair. Sometimes I have to take scissors and cut it and shape it myself.’^[19] In essence, it could be interpreted that female attractiveness implicitly and explicitly revolved around attracting men for men’s own benefit; pubic hair was just a tool. Women’s agency, and thus equality, didn’t matter to them. The pubic war was, after all, a man’s war.

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[1] ^[1] Playboy: Entertainment For Men, January 1971, pp36-39.

^[2] Tom Lamont, ‘Bob Guccione’s journey from birthday card to birthday suit’ The Guardian, <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/oct/24/pornography-penthouse-bob-guccione> [Accessed 10 February 2020] (para 1).

^[3] Ariel Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs Women and The Rise of Raunch Culture, (London: Simon & Schuster UK, 2005) p.63.

^[4] Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, pp.62-63.

[5] Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, pp.64-68.

^[6] Germaine Greer, The Female Eunuch, (London: Harper Perennial, 2006) p.43.

^[7] Karin Lesnik-Oberstein, The Last Taboo, Women and Body Hair, (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006) p.19.

^[8] Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, p.58.

^[9] iBid pp.41-2.

^[10] Lamont, ‘Bob Guccione’s journey’ The Guardian, <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/oct/24/pornography-penthouse-bob-guccione> [Accessed 10 February 2020] (para 6).

[11] Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, p.60.

[12] Raewyn Connell, The Social Organisation of Masculinity, (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), pp.72-77.

^[13]  Levy, Female Chauvinist Pigs, p.61.

^[14] Patty Farmer, ‘Stiff Competition’, Playboy, (2019) <https://www.playboy.com/read/stiff-competition> [Accessed 10 February 2020] (para 10).

^[15] Farmer, ‘Stiff Competition’ <https://www.playboy.com/read/stiff-competition> [Accessed 10 February 2020] (para 11).

^[16] iBid pp.58-9.

^[17] Anthony Haden-Guest, ‘Hugh Hefner: Inside ‘Playboy’ and the Race to Show More in America’s Magazines’ Rolling Stone Magazine, (1973), <https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/hugh-hefner-inside-playboy-and-the-race-to-show-more-in-americas-magazines-201936/ [Accessed 10 February 2020].

^[18] Lesnik-Oberstein, The Last Taboo,p.3.

^[19] Haden-Guest, ‘Inside Playboy’, <https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/hugh-hefner-inside-playboy-and-the-race-to-show-more-in-americas-magazines-201936/ [Accessed 10 February 2020].

By Bethan Holt

International Planned Parenthood Federation – Contraceptive Training Films: Intrauterine Devices (1989)

‘The intrauterine device, commonly called the IUD, is one of the most widely used methods of reversible contraception. It has many advantages…’ (00:33).[1]

This 1989 film, produced by North South Productions for International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF), was made to inform medical practitioners and providers of contraception about intrauterine devices (IUDs). The twenty-five minute video informs viewers about different types of IUDs, and where, when and how they should be used.

The film is significant because it offers some insight into the approaches to contraception and family planning of professional medicine, and those of IPPF, a mainstream international family planning organisation. In this short review, I will focus on what the film reveals about the attitude of these groups – professional medicine and IPPF –  towards women’s agency in birth control.

In the 1980s, the IUD had a mixed reputation. Although feminists and women’s health activists initially welcomed the IUD (concerns over the safety of the oral hormonal contraceptive pill rose in the late 1960s), by the mid-1970s, significant health problems had arisen as a result of IUD use. One particular kind of IUD, the Dalkon Shield, had caused thousands of women to experience infections, of whom at least fifteen died.[2] Chikako Takeshita, a feminist scholar of science and technology studies, described the IUD in the 1980s as ‘a symbol of health disaster for women.’[3]

Furthermore, some contemporary feminist critics were concerned about the coercive capacity of the IUD. Notably, Andrea Tone’s 1999 article noted the ways population control advocates envisioned the IUD as a device that could be used on poor and uneducated women to prevent them from reproducing.[4] The IUD could also be used by force in contexts where governments sought tight control over reproduction. One of the most stark examples of this was during China’s one-child policy in the 1980s. After giving birth to their first child, every woman was required to be inserted with a tamper-resistant IUD.[5]

These are clear and perhaps even shocking examples of how IUDs could be enforced in ways which denied or undermined women’s agency over their bodies and fertility. The IPPF film offers an example of more subtle ways women were not given full control over their fertility choices.

The film emphasises the importance of women being given information about the IUD alongside information about other contraceptive methods in order for them to make an ‘informed’ and ‘free’ choice (07:22). At the same time, the film clearly constructs a profile for the ideal IUD user. In one depiction of an interaction between a doctor and patient (fig. 2), the age and parental status of the potential IUD user are shown to be important factors when determining whether the woman is an appropriate candidate for the IUD. Likewise, being in a monogamous sexual relationship, most likely indicated by marriage, is considered an important factor for the ideal candidate for IUD use. As such, the ideal candidate for an IUD is constructed as a married woman with children.

            The film states that women who have not had children are not suitable candidates for the IUD there is a risk it may cause infertility. This approach to the IUD reveals the assumptions made by medical professionals and birth control providers about risk. For women without children, the risk of infertility outweighs the need to prevent conception. For women with children, the risk of an unplanned pregnancy is more severe than that of infertility. Writing in the same decade this film was produced, Hilary Thomas’ work on the medicalisation and professionalisation of contraception noted that the need to maintain fertility is usually assumed by medical professionals rather than discussed with the patient.[6] The possibility that some women may never want to become pregnant is therefore not considered, restricting childless women’s reproductive choices to those that preserve their fertility.

Thomas’ critique of the ways the medical profession approached birth control highlighted a contradiction. At the same time as asserting the importance of all methods of contraception being clearly explained to the patient in order for them to choose the method (as we see in the film), medical discourses construct ideal types of patients, matching them with appropriate methods.[7] What is considered appropriate is not only based on physiological or medical factors – for instance the film states that a woman with an existing pelvic infection should not have the IUD inserted – but also social and cultural factors.[8] In this case, the claim that childless women are not suitable for using the IUD because of the risk of infertility is based on a socially/culturally constructed expectation that all women must one day have children.

The way the film deals with women’s pain is also telling.  In cases where an IUD user is unhappy with their IUD, the film informs viewers of the ‘fine balance between reassuring her and suggesting she should give the device more time, and removing the IUD’ (22:57). At face value this seems a fairly innocuous statement. However if we consider feminist critiques of Western medical practices, this statement takes on different meanings. Underlying these issues is a fundamental lack of regard given to women’s self-reporting of pain. Considering this, the statement in the film can be understood as subtly urging medical professionals to encourage women to keep their IUDs despite any pain or discomfort they may feel. This brings into question the extent to which patients can consent to having an IUD inserted if the reversible nature of consent is denied, or at least discouraged.

The IPPF film expresses ambivalence towards women’s agency when making reproductive decisions. Analysing it with the question of agency in mind reminds us of the importance of thinking critically about the ways professional medical discourses can affirm gendered social and cultural gender expectations, setting out structures within which people can make reproductive decisions.

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[1] Time stamps and images throughout are from: ‘Contraceptive Training Films: Intrauterine Devices’ (1989) <https://ia800109.us.archive.org/29/items/IUD_IPPF/IUD%20IPPF.mp4> [accessed 10 February 2020].

[2] Chikako Takeshita, The Global Biopolitics of the IUD: How Science Constructs Contraceptive Users and Women’s Bodies (Cambridge and London: The MIT Press, 2012), p.6.

[3] Takeshita, Global Biopolitics of the IUD, p.6.

[4] Takeshita, Global Biopolitics of the IUD, p.6; Andrea Tone, ‘Violence by Design: Contraceptive Technology and the Invasion of the Female Body’, in Michael Bellesiles ed., Lethal Imagination: Violence and Brutality in American History (New York University Press, 1999).

[5] Takeshita, Global Biopolitics of the IUD, p.70.

[6] Hilary Thomas, ‘The Medical Construction of the Contraceptive Career’, in Hilary Homans (ed.) The Sexual Politics of Reproduction (Gower Publishing Company, 1985), p.54.

[7] Thomas, ‘Medical Construction’, p.62.

[8] Thomas, ‘Medical Construction’, p.63.

By Ella MacColl

Looking disturbingly (and sadly presciently) like devices of torture, the Dalkon Shield contraceptive came onto the scene in 1971 and fast became the most popular intrauterine device (IUD) on the US market.[1] Hailed as the ‘the IUD that’s changing current thinking about contraceptives’, it was inserted into the patient’s uterus by the physician and, according to adverts, was ‘anatomically engineered’ for optimum fit.[2] Now a woman could ‘throw away her calendars, charts, and dispensers,’ as she would be protected 24 hours a day from pregnancy.[3] However, this success was to be short-lived, as reports soon emerged of miscarriages, infertility, serious infections and even deaths from women fitted with these IUDs.

These were tragic outcomes for women like Meryl Gordon, who believed they were making a health-conscious decision and they stand in stark contrast to the advertisements for the device that hailed it as safe, comfortable and highly effective. Whilst historians like Kathryn Goldberg assert that the creators of this device had not meant to harm women,[4] looking at one advertisement published in medical journals in 1971 allows us to explore how women were objectified and patronised through medical science by reducing them to their biological function.

The company who sold the IUD, A.H. Robins, published an advertisement in medical journals – such as Obstetrics and Gynaecology[5] – in 1972 called ‘A progress report: The IUD that’s changing current thinking about contraceptives’.[6] This 8-page booklet gave physicians an overview of the IUD’s ‘ingenious’ design, quoted clinical tests, explained who it was for and gave practical instructions on insertion. What stands out in this advert is the lack of any patient involvement or choice in whether she wanted this method of contraception. Instead, it addresses the physician alone and how he might choose to treat his patients. The advert opens up by saying the IUD was introduced to the medical profession with more and more doctors (and their patients) being concerned about the side-effects of the pill and continues to assure that compared to other IUDs, the Dalkon Shield ‘is preferred by many physicians’. The woman receiving the IUD is rendered a passive recipient of the device, rather than an independent agent making an active choice about what is right for her body.

One scholar, Chikako Takeshita uncovered this as a recurrent theme in the development of IUDs, whereby women were rendered ‘passive recipients of contraceptive technologies’ rather than agential decision-makers.[7]  Doctors are cast in a paternalistic role throughout this booklet, encouraging them to keep up with modernity and look out for the woman who ‘wants to be liberated from troublesome birth control devices’. Furthermore, an emphasis was placed on its suitability for women who might be too disorganized to use other forms of contraception. Similarly, it is interesting that, instead of engaging in direct eye contact, all the women in the advert are looking away from the reader. Studies of visual design suggest this ‘allows the viewer to scrutinize the represented characters as though they were specimens in a display case’.[8] The clear message to the doctor is that these women are passive objects, in need of help.

Whilst this paternalistic tone is a notable element, what is also interesting is how women are reduced to their biological functions, leaving even less room for agency. The producer of the pamphlet, A.H. Robins explains how the IUD is ‘anatomically engineered for optimum uterine placement, fit, tolerance, and retention’ as it was designed based on a standardised uterus, allowing for easy, comfortable and ‘rational’ insertion. Individual women’s bodies were sidestepped in order to universalize women and relocate ‘individual women’s agency to the reproductive organ’.[9] Stressing its ‘ingenious’ design meant that any complications that arose could potentially be attributed to the individual woman, whose uterus did not conform to this anatomically engineered device, rather than the device itself – in other words, the woman was at fault, not the Dalkon Shield. The advert goes on to point out, ‘The need for removal and/or replacement of the Dalkon Shield is dictated largely by patient tolerance’, locating intolerance at the patient level. This is particularly pertinent, given several testimonies from women who had the IUD inserted said that their physicians failed to acknowledge their discomfort both during insertion and the months that followed.[10] This is also echoed in court proceedings for women taking legal action against A.H. Robins, whereby the company attempted to discredit women’s painful stories by framing them as emotional, subjective and irrational.[11] The pain these women experienced could, therefore, be located as psychological instead of physical – given the ergonomic design of the IUD – making it easier to dismiss.

The pathologising of women and their bodies has a long and complicated history; feminist historians have detailed, at length, interactions between women and the medical field which have left women reduced to their composite parts.[12] Likewise, the language, discourses and images used in this advert work to dismiss women’s subjectivity in a medical setting. It shows a disorganised woman, in need of help, with a doctor who can liberate her with modern technology. The stories told through this advertisement add much to the unfortunate history of the Dalkon Shield and those who suffered as a result.

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[1] Rainy Horowitz, ‘The Dalkon Shield’, Embryo Project Encyclopedia, http://embryo.asu.edu/handle/10776/13043 [accessed 10 February 2020].

[2]  ‘Regulation of Medical Devices (Intrauterine Contraceptive Devices): Hearing before a Subcommittee…93-1 May 30, 31; June 1, 12, and 13, 1973’ United States. Congress. House. Government., https://bit.ly/2Y3UZdJ, [Accessed 5 June 2020], pp.85-92.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Kathryn Goldberg, ‘Designing the popularity of the Dalkon Shield’, (unpublished thesis, Case Western Reserve University, 2012), https://etd.ohiolink.edu/!etd.send_file?accession=case1333737047&disposition=inline, [Accessed 10 February 2020].

[5] ‘Regulation of Medical Devices (Intrauterine Contraceptive Devices)’, p.398; Interestingly, on p.402 of this hearing report, David Bickbart (who, at the time, worked for the National Advertising Division) states that the advert may have been printed multiple times. How many were printed and where exactly remains largely unknown to both Bickbart and wider academic audiences.

[6] ‘Regulation of Medical Devices (Intrauterine Contraceptive Devices)’, p.85.

[7] Chikako Takeshita, The global biopolitics of the IUD, (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 2011) p.18.

[8] Gunther Kress and Theo van Leeuwen, Reading Images: The Grammar of Visual Design, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 2006),  p.43.

[9] Takeshita, p.53.

[10] Lisa Baker, ‘Control and the Dalkon Shield’, Violence Against Women, 7:11 (2001), pp.1303-1317; Goldberg.

[11] Baker, p.1313.

[12] See Gena Corea, The Hidden Malpractice: How American Medicine Mistreats Women (New York: William Morrow, 1985).

By Athanasios Koufopanos

Contemplating about cars in his short essay on the Citroën DS in the 1950s, French philosopher Roland Barthes writes:

‘[The car is] devoured as an image, if not through its use, by a whole people that sees in it a perfectly magical object.’[1]

Barthes’ reference to the ‘image’ and the ‘use’ of an object is a starting point to understand the depiction of a product in advertising representations. For example, in the image above, a German Porsche advertisement in a British motoring magazine of the 1960s, we can see the car itself, with its image ‘altered’ to indicate its use. More specifically, the right half is covered in dirt, as a result of a car race, with the victorious German driver standing in the side. The left half of the car is neat and clean, with a man and a woman ready to enter.

This is an example when the presence of individuals in the picture emphasises and determines the use of the object more effectively than its image does. Furthermore, the figures in the picture imply a gendered understanding of the use of the car. This text will show how in the 1960s Britain a car was perceived in advertisement not only as a symbol associated with masculinity but also as an indicator of gender relations among the heterosexual couple.

Mobility in Britain can be considered a gendered issue, dating back to the mid- 1930s in which only 12% of license holders were women. This can be accredited to the fact that women required their husband’s permission to drive the family car.[2] Women’s experiences as drivers in the Home Front during World War II and the expansion of automobility in Britain after the war enabled a respective increase in the number of women licence holders and drivers. Women entering the relevant market is reflected in car advertisements of the 1960s, which, compared to the previous decade, are more female inclusive, though still confined by traditional sexist stereotypes. More specifically, by projecting the ‘modern domestic comfort’ of the 1960s car, advertisers incorporated women in the consumers’ spectrum, based on the assumption that they would appreciate a luxurious interior in the same way men appreciated elegance, power and speed.[3] In early post-war Western Europe, cars being a basic commodity came to incarnate individual freedom and the middle-class affluence of the period.[4] Kristin Ross connects the freedom to defy space limitations through driving with the model of l’homme disponible, the available man, in 1950s and 1960s France.[5] Alongside moving through space, car ownership gave the affluent middle-class family the opportunity to expand or transfer its domestic space and consequently the gender relations, traditionally of female subjugation, deployed in this space.[6]

Freedom from space limitations could also be freedom from safety concerns. The danger of car racing is a connotation of the racer in the right section of our advertisement piece. The danger of driving in general can be associated with an adventurous model of manliness. James Dean’s death in his Porsche in 1955 was inextricably waived in his legacy, a legacy celebrating freedom and masculinity.[7] Of course, the car racer in the image seems to have survived the danger intact. His maleness reflects a statistical reality concerning race drivers, since very few women were occupied in the sport. Therefore, as Helena Tolvhed shows in her relevant article, a Swedish woman winning the Argentina Grand Prix in 1962 was discussed in the press of the time in explicitly sexualised terms, as a feminine exceptionality.[8] We could say that the male racer can be identified with the hegemonic model of masculinity elaborated by R.W. Connell, a normative concept summarising the masculine ideals that are legitimised in a given socio-cultural milieu to dominate other versions of masculinity and perpetuate patriarchal subjugation of women.[9]

If the car racer represents adventurous masculinity, the suited man on the left section resembles to the more grounded model of the bread-winner. In Connell’s concept, that could be understood as the ‘complicit’ version, a type of masculinity that does not adhere to the hegemonic model but neither poses a threat to it, as it reproduces social conformity.[10] This man’s clothing and the fact that he carries a briefcase imply that he is about to drive to work at that moment. He holds the key, a tool of control over the car, ready to open the door for a woman looking at him with profound admiration. If we assume that they are a couple, we get a clear depiction of female dependence, even more emphasised in the scenario that he is about to drive her somewhere before going to his job. In real life, however, things could be the other way around as well. In the 1960s Britain it was already the case for many unemployed wives to drive their husband at work and then use the car for everyday shopping. Moreover, the female presence in the advertisement as a co-driver may underestimate the existence of women drivers in urban areas but still points to women as consumers, since it was common for purchasing luxurious cars like these to require the combined capital of a married couple.[11] Therefore, middle-class working women could contribute in buying a car, irrespectively if they would drive it or not.

According to Ben Griffin, driving had been a traditional masculine activity that was reshaped by the increasing presence of women behind the wheel.[12] This development was on its way during the 1960s. Given that, it is of interest to note that images like the one in reference reproduced the norm of the car being an object that expressed versions of masculinity, in this case the one of a racing driver and of a providing husband. Even more, the car as an extended domestic space enables us to trace patterns of gender relations within the heterosexual couple. Therefore, since the male was still identified as the main car buyer, sketches like that kept depicting him generously driving the dependable female, and not vice-versa.

[1] Roland Barthes, Mythologies (Paris, Editions de Seuil: 1957), p. 150 (my own translation).

[2] Sean O’Connell, ‘Gender and the Car in Inter-war Britain’, in Moira Donald and Linda Hurcombe (eds), Gender and Material Culture in Historical Perspective (London, Macmillan Press Ltd: 2000), p. 177.

[3] Simon Gunn, ‘People and the car: the expansion of automobility in urban Britain, c.1955-70’, Social History 38:2 (2013), pp. 230-231.

[4] Gunn, ‘People and the car’, pp. 221, 226; Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of the French Culture (Cambridge MA, The MIT Press: 1995), pp. 19-22.

[5] Ross, Fast Cars, p. 22.

[6] Gunn, ‘People and the car’, p. 231.

[7] Ross, Fast Cars, p. 46.

[8] Helena Tolvhed, ‘Ewy Rosqvist, rally queen: gender, identity and car racing at the beginning of the 1960s’, Sport in Society 20:8, pp. 1050-52, 1055-56.

[9] Raewyn Connell, Masculinities (Cambridge, Polity, 2005), pp. 77-78.

[10] Ibid., pp. 79-80.

[11] Gunn, ‘People and the car’, pp. 230, 234-235.

[12] Ben Griffin, ‘Hegemonic Masculinity as a Historical Problem’, Gender & History 30:2 (July 2018), p. 389.